


grim

by ameliafuckingshepherd



Series: me taking out my problems on the avengers [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anorexia, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Depression, Eating Disorders, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov-centric, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:10:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliafuckingshepherd/pseuds/ameliafuckingshepherd
Summary: Natasha Romanoff doesn't know how it started.She just knows how it got out of hand.





	grim

**Author's Note:**

> this is a vent fic because my own eating disorder is drowning me and I need to project it on my favorite avenger like I always do. it isn't good, it's just sad. have fun !!

It wasn’t that Natasha wasn’t happy. Looking back, she was. She made a whole new family with SHIELD and the Avengers, better than any family she’s ever had before. She got to do what she loved (kill bad guys) and be with her best friend (Clint) and finally, she could control her own life.

So it’s not that she wasn’t happy. 

If she really had to pin it on something besides a worse than bad childhood and a drinking problem in her early twenties, she’d have to blame the Red Room. No one was ever good enough for Madame B., no one thin enough, no one sexy enough. To be a good assassin, you had to be gorgeous. You had to have a perfect body (skinny) and perfect fighting technique. You had to be perfect in every way. 

* * *

Fresh out of the Red Room, Natasha was living in the sewers of Saint Petersburg, doing freelance spy work and assassinations. She didn’t have much, or anything, to eat. She got used to it, hardly even feeling hungry anymore. She was relieved to be able to eat whatever she wanted. The Red Room had all of them on a high protein, low carb diet to keep them strong but thin. She just wished she had the money to use her newfound freedom.

A month or two later, she got back on her feet and began to rent motel rooms. It wasn’t practical to get an apartment because she traveled around so much on jobs, and she had hardly a suitcase worth of clothes and guns. 

The first time she saw herself in months was in a four-star hotel in Novosibirsk, a reward for a particularly well-done kill. As soon as she stepped inside and bolted the door, she stripped off her clothes and headed to the bathroom, doing a double take in the mirror. Natasha had never cared what she looked like, following whatever Madame B. told her to do. She was terrified of losing her title of star student, Russia’s best assassin in training. She had lost a considerable amount of weight, legs shrank and wrists smaller than a baseball bat. 

She _liked_ it. If this was good, what would she look like if she keeps eating like this? Maybe she could do it, just for a little while. Just to lose a few more pounds, and then she’d stop.

* * *

Some asshole grabbed her while she was drunk at a bar in London. It has been a bad week, a few bad jobs, and a few too many clients promising to “pay her once they got the money” (which meant they wouldn’t). So Natasha took a night off, leaving her weapons in her hotel room because for one damn day, she doesn’t want to be Natasha Romanoff. She doesn’t want to be a killer. She didn’t want any of this. Hence drinking her problems away at three in the morning. 

She hardly noticed when a man dragged her out back, finally being called to her senses when her back was slammed against cold, damp brick. She tried to fight back, but her hands were pinned above her head and his body was crushing her. She could hardly breathe. She had no strength to fight back, not anymore. Not after the year she’d had. 

At some point, she stopped screaming when she realized no one was coming. The man stank of sweat and alcohol and Natasha could swear she saw white powder clinging to his upper lip.

He left her in the alley, curled in a puddle, throat raw and eyes red.

Natasha vaguely remembered a few women asking her if she’s okay. Maybe they loaded her into a cab, somehow coaxing the address of her hotel out of her. Maybe Natasha thanked them through sobs, promising to pay them back for their kindness. She only half recollects dragging herself up the stairs (because the elevator was sure to have people in it, and Natasha doesn’t want _anyone_ to see her like this) and drawing a hot bath. She spent hours scrubbing her skin until it was raw. All she remembers clearly is the overwhelming need to get that disgusting man off of her. 

She awoke the next morning in the bathtub with bruises, a pounding headache, and patches of stinging, exposed skin all over her body. She emptied the tub and filled it again, washing out her hair which never really got clean last night. Natasha felt numb. She feelt angry, too, for what this man did to her. 

She vowed to hunt him down and kill him.

* * *

Natasha ended up back in London for a few days while she’s in between a PI job for an Irish mobster and a hit ordered on a politician by his wife. She didn’t leave her hotel room.

Every street she turned down on her way here reminded her of her last trip to this piece of shit city. Every brick wall recounting the stranger forcing himself on her.

She had been getting better with her eating. She had a scare when she collapsed in a coffee house one day and swore to be healthier. But as everyone knows, a spy doesn’t keep her promises. Sometimes, she felt like the bruises never fully faded from the delicate skin of her wrists and hips. On those days when she feels like she can still see them staining purple, she throws up. 

The memory of that wretched night makes her gag and choke. Makes her empty her stomach into a toilet every time she looks at her naked body in the mirror. 

When she was younger, she tried to make herself throw up. Her roommate caught her and threatened to tell their teachers. Natasha did her laundry for a month to keep her quiet. But now, she can get away with it.

Maybe this isn’t so bad.

Maybe she could get used to this.

* * *

She was knee deep in her filthy disgusting habit when she met Clint Barton. He recruited her on a SHIELD mission gone wrong, and her life turned for the better.

Nick Fury became like the uncle she never had. He gave her guns and a suit and he paid her to help save lives. He made her quit drinking. He saw her scream and cry when he pulled the bottle of whiskey from her hands, and he told her that everything would be okay.

It was.

She met Tony Stark, and they became fast friends (though they would never be as close as her and Clint. Clint just got her in a way no one else ever had). He made her better Widow’s Bites and got her in on the Avengers Initiative, inviting her to come live in the tower with the rest of the team. Tony Stark gave her a real home. No matter how arrogant he was or how annoying his antics could be, she will always be greatful to him.

But it wasn’t Tony who found her bent over the toilet, fingers down her throat and tears streaming down her cheeks, it was Steve Rogers. It was Steve Rogers who listened to her when she said she just couldn’t live with this anymore, and that she would be better off dead. It was Steve Rogers who wiped away her tears and led her to her bed and wrapped her in a fuzzy purple blanket patterned with arrows (she had stolen it from Clint a few years ago, and he never asked for it back). It was Steve Rogers who called Clint Barton from his room down the hall, who left them alone even though she knew he wanted to stay.

Natasha would text him when she had a bad day. He would go to her room after everyone else fell asleep and they would put on a T.V. show while they talked because more often than not, the silence was oo much for both of them. He would listen as she told him about her childhood in Russia, about the scars on her arms caused by so much pain and numbness that she couldn’t keep it all in her head. 

Some nights, Steve would stay. They would fall asleep with Parks and Rec or Brooklyn nine-nine playing softly on the wall, curled into each other. Natasha would hold his hands like a lifeline those nights.

* * *

She had been out on a recon mission when a man grabbed her arm. She shook him off, and he followed her to her car, calling crude things towards her all the way. Natasha turned around and pulled out her gun, fighting the rising panic that came in the wake of memories long past. But this time, she can defend herself.

She will never let a man touch her like that again.

 

“If I were you, I would run before I pull this trigger.” 

It was almost comical, seeing this fully grown man put his hands up, slowly backing away with a “woah, hey, I just wanted to ask you for a drink!” When he didn’t run, Natasha clicked the safety off with deliberate dramatics. The man sprinted away as fast as he could.

Natasha clicked the door open and collapsed into the driver’s seat of the black mustang. Her breath comes in fast, sharp stabs, vision blurry as tears slide down her cheeks. 

_”you’ll break them.”_

_”only the breakable ones.”_

She didn’t remember buying five bottles of the shittiest alcohol she could find, doesn’t remember downing a quarter of one and speeding back to the tower. She hardly remembered stumbling into the private elevator, drawing confused glances from the late night security guards and employees. The tote bag clanking suspiciously and her tear-streaked face certainly didn’t help. 

She foggily tells JARVIS (back in the day when JARVIS was still JARVIS and not Ultron, before everything had really gone to hell) to take her up to the penthouse. She stumbled through the living room, kicking off her heels on the way.

“Hey, Nat,” Bruce called from the kitchen. “Done with the recon already? Thought you’d be-are you okay?”

“‘M fine,” she slurred, stumbling before catching herself on the wall. Natasha walked to her room, ignoring Bruce’s concerned words behind her. The door slid wordlessly open, and she barley made it to her bed before vomiting all over herself. She cracked open another bottle of dollar tree purchased lime margarita mix and took a sip. It was disgusting. She was disgusting.

She scratched at the places where she could feel his hands on her, scratched at her stomach and face and chest and arms. She hardly noticed as blood mixed with tears and vomit on her hands and face. Hardly noticed as the threw up again. Hardly noticed when someone knocked lightly on the door, asking to come in. She was so fucking out of it, so drunk and humiliated she didn’t care who saw her.

Natasha vaugley notices Steve shaking her, picking her up and taking her into the bathroom.

“Clint, I want clint,” Natasha stated.

“He’s on a mission so you’re gonna have to do with me.”

“Don’t want you to have to see me like this,” Natasha said before vomiting into the toilet. She was curled up on the cold, marble floor, shivering and crying.

Steve didn’t respond, just turned on the shower. “Take off your clothes.”

Natasha would have made some sort of joke about sex, but her brain felt like marble. She stripped off the black cocktail dress and tights, lace underwear and bra coming with it. Steve guided her into the shower, stepping in with her. She clings to his soaking shirt, sobs coming out loud and ugly. He stood holding her for a long time, rubbing soothing circles into her back. He washed her hair and her body, washing away blood and bile. She faded in and out of conciousness, but he kept her steady and upright. It was at two in the morning when he wrapped her in a towel and carried her to his room. He cleaned the gashed on her body with alcohol and felt greatful that they weren't very deep. It was two fifteen when he went back to find a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. Steve helped Natasha dress and then held her while she wept and recounted that night in london so many years ago. He cried for her, with her, because she shouldn’t have had to have gone through this alone. 

Natasha didn’t remember when she blacked out. She woke up the next morning with almost no memory of the night before but didn’t complain when Steve told her not to apologize in the morning.

“You need help, Romanoff. That’s why I’m here.”

* * *

She was two years sober in December of twenty fifteen. Steve and Clint helped her. She and Tony would confide in each other, talk each other down from going back to their drinking habits.

It was December of twenty fifteen when she collapsed in the training room. She woke up an hour later in the med bay with a tube up her nose and an IV in her arm. They told her she was anorexic.

And bulimic.

And depressed.

She spent Christmas in the hospital that year. Her team crowded around her bed, opening presents, willing to sacrifice their happy, homey Christmas day to spend it with her in a hospital room. When they left, she wheeled her IV stand that put water back in her veins to the window. She watched the snow collect on balconies, falling silently. The previous day, she had ripped the NG tube out of her nose, screaming at anyone who came near here. 

They put her in restraints for the rest of the day but didn’t try to put the tube back in.

As soon as she got out, she went back to her old ways. She obsessed over herself and what she ate, terrified to even be near food because it felt like any second she might snap. She was so fucking hungry she couldn’t think. It scared the hell out of her. But she couldn't stop, not yet. She wasn't perfect.

* * *

Tony and Steve fought. Natasha not only lost her two best friends but lost Wanda and Sam as well. After they were caught and received their sentence, Natasha started to drink again.

This time, she didn’t want to stop.

* * *

Natasha was a skeleton when the rouge Avengers were finally pardoned. She was a shell of a spy when she fell into Clint’s arms when he and the others arrived at the compound. She shut her eyes against the glances from her friends, against the looks Steve and Clint shared. 

“You look like a ghost, Tasha.” Steve whispered in her ear.

“I know,” she responded.

* * *

They played in the freshly dusted snow, feeling like children again. The team bundled up in snow gear and ran around in the trees beside the compound. Tony’s kid, Peter, joined them. Natasha figured out that he was spiderman pretty quickly. She liked him. He was so full of joy and passion, bubbling over with happiness. 

She wanted that. 

She wanted a baby. 

She was furious that the Red Room took that away from her. She will never get it back. but feeling sorry for herself won't do any good, so she makes a snowball and throws it at Clint, who shouts angrily and chucks one back. Her heart aches for the days when she could just be _happy_.

Later that day, her heart finally stopped.

* * *

They tied her to a hospital bed and fed her through a tube, and she let them because she was tired of being brave. Her family sat around her bed. Often, Clint slept in her room on the reclining chair. Sometimes, Steve and Tony joined him. She hated her scars, hated the ghosts of bruises, hated the way her skin stuck to her bones like cellophane. She hated her illness. She hated the host of pills they force down her throat every day. She hated who she has turned into. 

For the first time in her life, she wished she could go back in time, go back to Russia and the Red Room, go back to a time when it was just her and a bottle of vodka and a gun.

* * *

In August of twenty seventeen, they let her take the tube out of her nose.

* * *

It was Christmas again, and Natasha finally felt normal. She let Clint pick what she ate (because she had promised to do better, but spies never keep their promises and she can’t trust herself anymore). Her little family sat around the glowing tree and exchanged presents and “I love you”s and laughs. Steve gave her a blood red sweater and a light handgun. Clint gave her a little arrow ring to match her little arrow necklace. Tony gave her new widows bites. Wanda gave her a red leather jacket, smiling as she explained it was a replacement for the one she took last year. It was two in the afternoon when they went out to play in the snow, hurling balls of ice at each other and making snowmen and sledding down the slight hill. It was two forty-five when Natasha realized that she was finally happy again. She fought her illness, and she won. And she was going to keep winning. It was four when they finally went inside and sat down to Christmas dinner. Clint piled her plate with foods of her childhood, foods that reminded her of days long past. She poured a cup of coffee, clinging to it like she was drowning and it was the only iceberg in miles. She might have been better, but she was still far from healed. 

“Natasha, this one is for you,” Tony said, holding up his glass of juice (because he wasn't drinking anymore, either). “Thank you for staying with us. That you for...thank you for getting better. For trying. We love you, and…” But he couldn‘t finish, couldn’t get the words past the lump in his throat. 

"Thanks, Tony," she mouthes, not trusting herself to speak. 

If the rest of the team shed a few tears, no one said anything about it.


End file.
